


Forgetting Sound

by phoenixdna



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post-Sign of Three, i'm new at this and don't know how to tag sorry, it's a weird realtionship, no actual incestuous activity occurs, so i didn't know how to sort it, they don't have a category for slightly messed-up platonic relationships, whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 10:24:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1131526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixdna/pseuds/phoenixdna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the wedding, Mycroft found Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forgetting Sound

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm new at this whole fanfic thing. I apologize in advance. Constructive criticism is welcome, constructive being the key word. Enjoy your stay.

Because I can't figure out how to put links in the notes, this is based on [this post](http://mycockholmess.tumblr.com/post/72470516164/but-mycroft-going-to-221b-after-the-wedding-and). 

***

After the wedding, Mycroft found Sherlock, curled up in bed in 221B. He was in John’s bed. He was still dressed in wedding clothes, and he was crying. It was a silent thing, Sherlock crying. It spoke of someone skilled in the art of disappearing. Mycroft was reminded of when Sherlock was a child. When children cry, it is because they want attention. When Sherlock cried, it was because he had given up on everything else, and was willing the world to disappear around him.

“Oh, dear, Sherlock.” Sherlock didn’t look up, and it was a testament to how far gone he was that he didn’t even try to make an excuse. “This is why.”

Mycroft sat on the bed, pulled Sherlock’s chin up until he was looking his brother in the eye. Sherlock’s eyes were puffy and red. Mycroft’s were guarded, but there were signs in them of something barely controlled.

“This is why we don’t get involved, little brother. Do you see?”                     

Sherlock nodded and choked on a cry. He dragged himself until he was almost in Mycroft’s lap, and suddenly he was five years old again. Whatever it was that set him off, be it a bee sting or a bully or mummy ignoring him again, Mycroft would always be there. Mycroft was the only one who was always there.

“Just like old times, brother mine,” Mycroft said, almost sadly. He rubbed Sherlock’s back, feeling his trembling body under his hands.

Mycroft was able to coax Sherlock out of his suit and into pyjamas. Sherlock refused to leave John’s bed, so that was where they ended up. Mycroft stroked Sherlock’s wet curls out of his face as he cried.

“Are you going to go to sleep now?” Mycroft asked. He stood.

“No, Mycroft,” Sherlock replied hoarsely, “Stay. Please stay.”

Mycroft gave a wry smile as he climbed back under the covers. “Just this once, alright?”

That was their little joke, from the times when Mycroft would wake Sherlock from nightmares. “Just this once,” he would always say, as he climbed under the covers next to Sherlock,  to protect him from the monsters. Mycroft would be lying if he said that they didn’t fit together perfectly, Sherlock’s body folding into his own. It wasn’t sex, but it was still a little messed up. Then again, who were the goldfish to understand, to judge? And if he stared at Sherlock’s lips while he slept, who did it hurt? That’s what Mycroft told himself. It helped him sleep at night.

It began to rain outside. The window was open; the mist refracted the streetlights, casting rainbow rings around them. When Sherlock was little, he used to say that the rain made a forgetting sound. Maybe he was right, thought Mycroft. He felt Sherlock slip into sleep, his taut body loosening under the rain’s soothing sound. Maybe he was right.

***

The next morning, they didn’t talk about it.

They didn’t talk about the crumpled pile of wedding clothes at the foot of John’s bed, or the puddle under the open window. Neither of them mentioned the tear-stains on John’s pillow. Sherlock did not bring up the fact that Mycroft kissed his forehead just before he fell asleep. He was not entirely sure it happened. Maybe he was dreaming. It wouldn’t have been the first time. Mycroft did not mention that, when he changed his shirt in the morning, Sherlock forgot to look away.

In fact, neither of them said a word. Sherlock laid in bed for the rest of the day, wandering through his Mind Palace, locking doors and hiding the keys. Mycroft dressed and left, closing the door quietly behind him. The tension of words unspoken hung thick in the air. That was the way their relationship was: a little brother who got in too deep, a big brother who picked him up, dusted him off, and always forgot to say goodbye.


End file.
